by John Cariani
It felt more like she was berating him—and like she was spoiling for a fight.
So Phil got ready to fight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just … not really all that surprising,” she said. And she let just enough disdain color her response that Phil could tell that she, too, was spoiling for a fight.
“What’s not surprising?” asked Phil.
“That you didn’t see it.” Marci waved her arm up at the sky to let him know that by “it,” she meant the shooting star.
“Why is that not surprising?”
“You don’t pay attention, Phil.”
Phil smiled angrily and shook his head and said, “See, when you say things like that, I feel like you’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad!” Marci truly thought she was telling the truth.
“Marce—”
“I wasn’t mad!” And then she exploded, “Where the heck is my shoe?!?” And she got up and grabbed the flashlight and angrily searched the area around the picnic table.
Phil didn’t quite know how to respond to Marci’s explosion. Because he didn’t understand why she was so upset that she had lost her shoe. Because he didn’t understand that she was angry about a lot more than not being able to find her other shoe.
“Maybe it is in the truck,” muttered Marci, mostly to herself. And she started hobbling up to the Sierra—even though she knew her other shoe wasn’t in the truck. She just wanted to get away from Phil. Because she was angry at him. And she couldn’t figure out how to tell him why.
“It’s not in the truck,” said Phil—mostly to himself. And he watched her go. She looked so ridiculous, limping along with one skate on and one shoe on.
And then he turned and looked out past the illuminated patch of ice they had been skating on and into the darkness and thought about how much he hated it when people pointed out shooting stars to him. Because he never saw them.
He hated it even more when people pointed out the man in the moon. He bet that most people—like him—had never seen the man in the moon and were just too afraid to admit it. Well, he was admitting it: he had never actually seen the man in the moon.
He looked skyward for the moon so he could prove that he couldn’t see the pareidolic image.
But there was no moon in the sky on the night when all the extraordinary things did or didn’t happen. Because it was a new moon. So he couldn’t prove anything.
As he scanned the sky looking for the moon, the Milky Way overwhelmed him. It was so deep. And mesmerizing. And he got a little dizzy—and felt like he might fall up into it.
But then he steadied himself when he heard Marci opening and closing all the doors to the truck, searching for her other shoe in all the same places Phil had searched. And he figured she’d find it. Because Marci always managed to find all the things her son and her daughter and her husband couldn’t find.
“This is so weird,” Marci called down to Phil. “I know I didn’t put my skates on in the car, ’cause the shoe I have on was out there, under the picnic table bench. ’Cause I put my skates on out there with you, right?”
Phil didn’t answer, because he was staring out across the illuminated makeshift ice rink and out into the blackness.
“Phil?” Marci repeated as she made her way back down to the picnic table. “I put my shoes right next to yours after we put our skates on, but it’s not … there. This is the weirdest thing.”
Phil dropped his head in his hands and pressed his palms against his eyes. And wondered how he could be so angry with someone he used to love so much. And he couldn’t breathe for a moment—because he had never thought of Marci as someone that he used to love.
“It’s not in the truck,” continued Marci. “I mean, I’m not gonna put one skate on in the car, the other one on out here—” Marci interrupted herself when she returned to the picnic table, because she saw Phil hunched over, his head in his hands. “Hey—you okay?”
“Huh?” Phil wasn’t okay. He was so sad. But he sat up quickly and did his best not to look sad.
But Marci could tell something wasn’t right. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Oh…” Phil tried to cover up his sadness and lied, “Nothin’.” And then he looked up at the sky and he lied some more. “I’m just makin’ a wish of my own, on a regular one.”
“Oh.” Marci looked up at the stars.
“Wanna wish on it with me?” offered Phil.
“Yeah,” said Marci, touched by the offer. “Yeah, that’d be nice,” she said, sitting down next to her husband and asking, “Which one?”
“Umm … see Shepalojo Mountain?” asked Phil. Marci looked across the lake and could make out the silhouette of Shepalojo Mountain against the starlit sky. Shepalojo Mountain wasn’t even sixteen hundred feet high, so it really should have been called Shepalojo Hill.
“Uh-huh,” said Marci. She and Phil were talking to one another familiarly and kindly. And they hadn’t done that in a long time. And they both liked it.
“Go straight up, right above it,” continued Phil, pointing directly above the mountain to the brightest object in the sky.
Marci followed the line of Phil’s arm to make sure she was looking where Phil was looking and asked, “The bright one?”
“Yeah.”
“That one?” asked Marci, making sure Phil could see which star she was pointing at. She seemed irritated, which confused Phil.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?”
Marci took Phil’s arm and used it as a sight just to be sure she was looking where her husband was pointing. “The reddish one, right there?” she asked, seeming more irritated.
“Yeah, what’s wrong?”
“Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“That’s a planet.”
“What?”
“That’s a planet. You’re wishing on a planet.”
“That’s a—?”
“A planet, yeah.”
“Well, how do you know?”
“And it’s…” Marci started singing, ‘When you wish upon a star,’ not ‘when you wish upon a planet or Jupiter’!”
“How do you know it’s a planet?”
“Jupiter’s the brightest object in the sky this month. They’ve been sayin’ it on the weather all week. And your wish is never gonna come true if you’re wishing on a planet.”
“Well—”
“You gotta pay attention,” chided Marci.
“Why do you keep sayin’ that?”
“What?”
“That I gotta pay attention?”
“’Cause you don’t.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Phil.” Marci looked right at her husband and said, “Happy Anniversary.”
Phil stopped breathing.
And tried to make sense of what his wife had just said.
And when he had made sense of it, he realized that he had forgotten their anniversary.
And his stomach hurt.
And he grimaced and weakly asked, “Huh?”
“Happy Anniversary,” repeated Marci. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Phil knew he was in trouble.
He knew he was in the wrong.
And he knew he needed to say he was sorry.
And he almost did. “I’m…”
But then he didn’t.
And instead of saying he was sorry, he said, “I knew you were mad.”
Phil’s response to Marci’s revelation was not at all what Marci was expecting.
She was expecting him to say, “I’m sorry.”
Or, “Happy Anniversary to you, too, honey.”
Not, “I knew you were mad.”
“What?!?” squeaked Marci, glaring at Phil.
“I knew you were mad,” repeated Phil.
“I heard you!” snapped Marci, sighing in disbelief and glaring at her husband. “I’m not mad, Phil!”
“Yeah, you are! You’re mad at me, and pretty soon,
outta nowhere, it’s gonna get ugly!” It had already gotten ugly. Phil was a good man, but he had a temper. And it was flaring.
Marci knew how to handle Phil’s temper and calmly stated, “Phil, hon, I’m not mad, I’m—”
But it was too late. The gasket had been blown. “I mean, Marce: I’m sorry!! I know I missed some things, but I gotta work! The company’s in trouble. The plant could close. And everything I’ve worked for might be gone.”
“I know, I know—”
“No, you don’t know. If it fails … what’ll we do?”
“We’ll figure somethin’ out—”
“What? What’ll we figure out?”
“I don’t know—”
“Yeah! That’s why I gotta be there so much. I gotta work to keep it goin’, and you can’t get mad at me for that, for wanting to be able to pay for our lives!”
“Phil! I’m not mad at you for that. I understand all that. What I don’t understand…” Marci’s throat closed up in the way throats do before tears fall. But she managed to keep the tears at bay and said, “What I don’t understand is … why I’m lonely. I got a husband and a coupla great kids. And I’m lonely.”
Living in Almost, Maine, had always been lonely for Marci. Because she was a city girl. From Presque Isle. So she was from away. And would always be from away.
And she was the girl who had nabbed Phil Pelkey, much to the dismay of the other girls in Almost who had hoped to nab Phil Pelkey.
And she and Phil had money. And a nice house. Unlike most people in Almost.
And she had had her kids later in life. So Marci was ten years older than the moms of her kids’ friends.
And she had gone to Bates College—one of those fancy, expensive colleges.
And she ran the Burby Foundation and wanted to help people in northern Maine. And many people in northern Maine didn’t like people who thought they needed help. Even though Almost had benefited tremendously from the work the foundation did. Marci had recently awarded grants to Gayle Pulcifer at the Rec Center so she could expand her programming, as well as to a bunch of dark-sky enthusiasts so they could build the observatory at Skyview Park.
So Marci had always felt like the outsider since she had moved to Almost. And that had made her feel lonely.
But the lonely she was feeling right now was a different kind of lonely. It was the kind of lonely that only people who have been married for a while can understand.
Phil had no idea what to say. He had had no idea that his wife was lonely.
“And, you know,” continued Marci, “I shouldn’t be lonely.” She shook her head, and a few tears fell out of her eyes.
It killed Phil to see Marci so sad.
But he didn’t know what to do to comfort her.
And it killed him that she was lonely.
But he couldn’t bring himself to make her less lonely.
“You just…” Marci took a second to pull herself together and went on. “You don’t pay attention anymore. And—I know you’re busy. I’m so proud of you and what you’ve made, but … you’re never here. With me. Anymore. You go away. Somewhere where you can’t pay attention, and you miss Jason’s first varsity basketball game. And you forget Missy’s birthday.”
“Honey…” Phil wanted to defend himself. But he couldn’t. So he didn’t.
So Marci added, “And you forget your anniversary.”
Phil felt like the biggest jerk of all time for forgetting their anniversary. And he was about to say he was sorry, because he thought Marci was finished. But she wasn’t. “I mean, I brought you here hoping you’d remember—about us. About … what we used to be. Before we got to where we are now.”
She paused. And sighed. And looked out onto the lake, past the illuminated makeshift ice rink and into the blackness.
And then said, “But you didn’t. Remember.”
And then she was still. And seemed defeated.
But then she took a deep breath and turned to Phil and hissed, “And that makes me so mad that … I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Phil winced at the rage Marci had unleashed.
But then realized how happy he was to finally have some truth.
Because Marci never told him the truth anymore.
So he gave her some truth right back.
“You lie,” he said.
“What?!” she rejoined. Phil’s response was so far afield of what she was expecting, it was almost absurd.
“You lie so bad.”
“What?!?”
“You’re mad at me. But you don’t tell me—even when I ask you over and over.”
“Because I’m only just figuring all this out!” cried Marci.
“No! No! No!” yelled Phil, springing to his feet. “You figured it out a long time ago! You’ve been mad at me—and disappointed in me—for a looooong time. But you don’t tell me you’re mad or disappointed. You just expect me to figure it out. So I’m always wondering how I’m doin’—as a husband, as a dad. So I just have to wonder and wonder and wonder where I am, where I stand with you.” Phil took a moment to breathe. And then added, “Maybe that’s why I go away. So I can know where I am for a second.” Phil stewed and paced for a moment and then stopped and turned to Marci and snarled, “And you know what? It’s lonely there, too, where I go. And you sent me there. You went away a long time before I did.”
“I didn’t go anywhere!”
“Yeah, you do. You go … wherever I’m not! Everything you do is for the kids! And now—with your new job—for other people! And their kids! And there’s nothin’ left for me! And you go around lyin’ like you like me and like we’re so happy—”
“I don’t go around lying!”
“Yes, you do! You say you’re not mad, but you’re mad! You say you have fun, but you don’t! You didn’t have fun tonight, did you?”
“No.”
“But you kept sayin’ you did.”
“I didn’t. I didn’t have fun, Phil. I don’t have fun with you anymore.”
Phil started nodding as he took in the truth Marci had spoken. And it hurt. But it was refreshing. And then he started laughing and said, “Well, I don’t either.”
And there it was. The truth. From both of them. For the first time in a long time.
“Well, then…” Marci smiled, even though her heart was heavy and achy. She was good at smiling when she didn’t mean it, and then asked, “What are we doin’?”
And Marci and Phil looked—really looked—at each other for the first time in a long time.
And neither of them much liked what they were looking at.
So they looked out onto the lake—past the illuminated makeshift ice rink and out into the darkness.
And they sat in the stillness. And felt … nothing. A winter night in northern Maine can make you feel nothing. Because it can make you feel senseless. The cold can numb your hands and feet, so you can’t feel them. Cold air is practically odorless, so you can’t smell anything. And it’s so dark, you feel like you can’t see. And it’s so quiet, you feel like you can’t hear.
So none of your senses feel like they work.
And you feel senseless.
Numb.
Which was how Marci and Phil felt.
Phil sat down next to Marci at the picnic table.
And neither of them knew what to say.
And neither of them knew what to do.
And then—they both felt a strange peace. And a strange lightness filled up their insides—and made them feel like they had just been released of a heavy, heavy weight. And also—like everything was going to be okay, somehow. Eventually.
Marci turned to Phil and asked, “Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“I asked you a question: What are we doin’?”
“I don’t know,” answered Phil.
Marci didn’t know what they were doing either.
“Well then … what are we waiting for?” asked Marci.
Phil didn’t know what Marci
meant by the question and was about to ask—when something fell.
From the sky.
Into the snow.
Right in front of them.
Phil and Marci jumped—Phil all the way up onto his feet. And they looked down in front of them to see what had fallen from the sky.
It had fallen far enough and fast enough that it had almost disappeared into the snow—into a hole of its own making.
Phil shone his flashlight on the hole as he went toward it.
Marci followed.
And Phil reached into the hole.
And dug out a shoe. A new black waterproof slip-on faux-suede winter shoe from L.L.Bean.
It was Marci’s other shoe.
And it had dropped.
From the sky.
Phil and Marci looked at each other.
And then looked back at the shoe.
And then they looked up to see if maybe it had fallen out of a tree or something. But there were no tree branches above them. Just the sky—which was all aglow with the northern lights. Which normally would have elicited more awe from the Pelkeys. But the shoe that had fallen from above—from seemingly out of nowhere—was hogging all the awe.
Marci and Phil looked down at the shoe that Phil was holding.
And then looked back up at the sky. Which was still full of the northern lights.
And then they looked back down at the shoe.
And tried to figure out where it had come from.
But couldn’t.
And then Phil held the shoe out to Marci.
And Marci took it.
And looked at it.
And then looked at her husband.
And then looked back up at the sky.
And then looked back at her husband.
And then looked back at the shoe.
And then sat down on the picnic bench and pulled her skate off.
And checked the sky one more time.
And looked at the shoe one more time.
And then slipped it on.
And looked back up at the sky.
And then looked to her husband.
And wondered what in the world was happening.
And then she slowly stood up and started gathering their things—her skates, Phil’s skates, the thermos—and shoved them into the hockey duffel bag. Then she shouldered the duffel, grabbed her totebag and the Coleman lantern, and made her way up to the Sierra, and tossed the duffel bag and her tote onto the backseat of the truck. Then she switched off the lantern and watched the flame die and set it on the floor in the backseat.